


The Very Thought of You

by MFLuder



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Background Case, Case Fic, Didn't Know They Were Dating, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Pining, Realization, Sexuality Crisis, pop culture references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26499226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MFLuder/pseuds/MFLuder
Summary: One more day in Atlantic City has forced John to realize his jerk-off session isn’t a one-off thing. He could make it a one-off thing, sure. A part of him is tempted; years of suppression and a preference for things not changing driving that inclination.But John isn’t military anymore, isn’t reallyanyoneanymore. Just a man in a suit, saving people based on numbers spit out by a machine, half who will never even know he was there.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	The Very Thought of You

**Author's Note:**

> Set ambiguously pre-season 4.
> 
> This fic was written as a commission for longtime fandom friend Mistress Kat. She was gracious enough to allow me to post so that other Rinch shippers could read. Thank you for the commission! <3

Their current number has brought Reese to Atlantic City. It’s just far enough that he hasn’t shuttled back and forth between it and New York, electing, instead, to stay in one of the smaller motels off the boardwalk. Sara Ellis has kept him busy enough anyway, rotating casinos every night as she engages in card sharking that is most likely going to get her killed – if not for the Machine.

He’s currently engaged in spying from the balcony of a room not his that looks directly in Ellis’. She’s on a call, negotiating with her partner and likely murderer. The city is cold, though, the ocean air giving it a bite for October. He finds himself desiring a cup of coffee and a pastry from the small bakery around the corner from the Library. They have an eclectic variety and the owner’s daughter had informed him she was going to try a new recipe for rugelach soon. He thinks Finch would like to try it, though he’s fairly certain that’s not why she told John about it. 

As he listens and catalogues Ellis’ conversation details, he finds his mind wandering. It’s ten in the evening and he wonders if Finch is still awake, perhaps reading or perhaps watching the Machine. Or, if it has been one of his bad days, where everything tires him out and he has gone to bed early; stoic but hoping for a brief respite from the chronic pain tomorrow.

John thinks, if he were there right now, he’d bring Finch a brandy, hoping to either entice him away from the Machine or to engage in a brief yet fulfilling discussion about Sartre before he truly called it a night.

Ellis is off the phone, having set her plans for the next night. He receives a ping that lets him know her partner is on the move, in a particularly dodgy part of the boardwalk, common for low-level Jersey mafia to hang out. It confirms his suspicions.

He puts down the binoculars and the earpiece, packing his equipment. Shakes his head at himself. He’s not entirely sure what has him waxing so nostalgic about New York, but since the big action is fixed for tomorrow night, he can return to his dingy motel and get some rest.

~~~

The next night he ascends the main casino floor stairs at the Tropicana, dressed in a perfectly fitting suit that is tarnished only by the horrendous tropical print silk shirt he’s wearing under it.

Finch had assured him this was appropriate. John tries not to look down at himself too often.

He glances around at the floor, easily blocking out the sound of slot machines, over-boozed college kids on fall break – those too poor for their families to own homes in the Hamptons – and the chatter of the staff. Tropicana has a nice sheen to it if one doesn’t look past the lights too hard; once you do, it’s easy to make out the architectural design of ‘mid 80’s Florida Keys retirement home’.

He easily follows Ellis who is clinging to her partner, Lance Aldridge. The two grew up together, separated over college, and reunited when Lance got divorced and ended up moving back in with his parents. John would feel sad for Sara, even if he didn’t know what Lance was planning.

Frankly, Lance is not a smart guy. Taking out his money maker solves his problem short-term – giving Sara up to the mafia in exchange for the forgiveness of his debt – but it lacks any sense of long-term strategy. Lance’s debts aren’t new and every time he cons his way out of them, he’s instantly gambling again. Letting Sara in on his struggles might have convinced her to help him, but he’s a man with a mission and no sense of loyalty.

For now, though, the two appear quite in love. If nothing else, Lance is a good actor. His bland midwestern good looks have gotten him out of a number of scrapes, and his charm kept his first marriage going for probably ten years too long. Currently, the two are in a booth in the back of Tropicana’s fine dining establishment; Lance’s hand resting on Sara’s knee, bodies turned in to one another.

John glances around and takes in the other couples. There’s one in the opposite corner that catches his eye; the woman reminds him of Jessica, and he forces himself to look away.

Two men catch his eye next. One of them sits straight and proper, glasses affixed to the menu, while the other is more casually dressed wearing a polo shirt with its buttons undone, slouching back in the booth. At first glance, an outsider might presume the two were friends, family, or there for business. From Reese’s angle though, he can see that their hands meet on the table behind the menus. Glasses raises his eyes and says something, a smile playing about his lips. He appears fond, especially given the other man’s response. He waves over a waiter, separating their hands long enough to point and order for both of them. His gestures suggest he is particular, either ordering a significant amount of food, or specifying steak and caviar temperatures. 

When the waiter leaves, the other man leans forward, the swoop of his bangs falling into his eyes, from under which he looks up at the other man, clearly flirting. Glasses smiles for real now, soft and indulgent. He claims the other man’s hand once more.

The tableau gives John pause. He operated under “don’t ask, don’t tell” for so long, he’s accustomed only to clandestine meetings in dark rooms and quickies out in the desert. Men who might have developed affection for one another either cut it off or became too obvious and ended up being sent home. He himself, had never cared; the sex of one’s partner had nothing to do with sloppy field work. He took the “don’t tell” part very seriously, if in a different manner than intended, never once sharing when he stumbled across evidence of homosexual relations. 

Glasses is younger than Finch, broader, his hair dark but for several streaks of silver highlights. Yet something about his mannerisms remind John of his partner and it causes him to pause, to consider.

Were the mannerisms the same when Finch took Grace on dates? Did he bring her to Michelin restaurants or Italian holes-in-the-wall where the chefs have been making the same recipes handed down over generations? Did she hold hands with Finch and tilt her head in the same sweet manner as Glasses’ partner is doing? Did Finch order wine for her and caress her knuckles?

When the food arrives for the couple, John glances back at the table he’s supposed to be watching. The contrast is remarkable. Lance is feeding Sara in a way that suggests he thinks its sexy, but it comes off juvenile, demeaning. Sara’s eyes reflect nothing but softness though, falling for the man’s veneer of charm. The man in the polo shirt, however, lifts his fork to his mouth, taking a small bite, pulling back, lips tight on the fork and while Jon can’t hear, he suspects the man gives a little moan. It’s a taunt, a tease, and remarkably seductive. John knows Glasses’ shift in his seat from his own occasional needs.

Dinner proceeds, with Lance saying nothing of important, instead continuing to give Sara the perception that she’s something more than his meal ticket – quite literally when at the end he pretends to feel for a wallet he doesn’t have – and she discusses their hit on the casino tonight. John maintains the minimal amount of attention necessary on his number and instead acts as a voyeur on the couple in the middle of the restaurant. Their dinner ends with Glasses taking the check and placing his hand on his date’s lower back; a simple gesture that screams to discerning audiences of his possessiveness and care for the man. They wander out into the casino and they might go on to a night of gambling or to another spot for dessert, but John is inclined to believe that – stomachs sated – the two men were going to satisfy other cravings.

His lips tingle, as if anticipating their first kiss of the evening.

His targets finally move on from their dessert to the casino floor and John moves with them, finishing his two fingers of bourbon with a final sip. He stations himself at a blackjack table, directly in line with their poker table. He continues to watch, even as he wins a few hands and then proceeds to lose it, giving the desperate looking twenty-something at his table a few extra hundred. He might be feeding a gambling addiction, but he watches the kid’s eyes light up, round with shock when the dealer says he’s won the exact amount Reese initially laid down on the table. Finch can spare the change.

In fact, later that evening, when Reese inserts himself into Sara and Lance’s table – now the high roller one, with ensuing audience and backseat participants – he casually wins Finch back double while Sara looks flustered and Lance begins to look nervous. Lance isn’t playing, rather letting Sara take the risks for him; the idea a good one since she’s clearly the better player of the two, not as inclined to tells or panicking. John’s silence and quick raking in of wins turns Lance’s attention to him. As he plays, John assesses him, finding his other weaknesses and tells through each hitch of his breath and flutter of his hands.

After sufficient observation up close, John takes his winnings but then shrugs when the audience cheers him on at the taunt of a large Russian and concedes to one more round of play. The others at the table who haven’t folded – the Russian, a plump lady who tanned too much in her youth, a thin pale slip of a man, and a curly-haired woman with olive skin – have sharp eyes on John now, some salivating over the idea of taking him for everything, others nervous he might sweep them once more. Ellis is the only one who maintains a cool demeanor; having played a few rounds, she has pushed down her initial concern, and John can tell she’s focused on counting cards now, instead.

They play once more, and this time, John lets the game continue, building the pot in her favor, and then he places his cards down. Upon reveal, Ellis lays down a full house. Technically, the Russian had her beat with four of kind, but he’d dropped when John had put twenty thousand into the middle of the table.

He turns to his audience, shrugging and says, “Got to know when to fold.” He’s looking right at Lance when he speaks though, and he watches the would-be murderer shiver. Sara’s too caught up in the elation of a win to notice him slipping out. 

He keeps his earpiece in, listens as Lance tells Sara she needs to win the next few rounds, his voice strained with tension that she doesn’t seem to pick up on. John sits at one of the quieter casino bars and sips on a beer. He maintains a friendly silent comradery with the tired bartender who interferes when an older handsome woman begins to head John’s way. He’s appreciative, uninterested in offering vague platitudes.

John tunes back in when he hears the targets having a heated argument. Sara wants Lance to stay with her, to ‘make love to her,’ and Lance is making his excuses. There’s a slammed door – either the hotel bathroom or the room door – and then the sound of shuffling and cursing from Lance, his voice a nasal whiny tone in John’s ear.

He waits and listens. Eventually, he sees Lance exit from the elevators; John chose this bar for more than the ambience. He’s dressed in a dark jacket and jeans, hair slicked back, doing his best to not appear suspicious – and in effect, looking exactly like that.

John follows the other man out onto the boardwalk, a standard five people between them. Lance walks, looking jittery and nervous, his gait skipping from time to time until he makes it to a spot where there’s less light from the hotels and restaurants and then he walks into the sand and sighs heavily before sitting on the sand. He takes out a cigarette and lights it. John watches as the tension slowly drains from him.

Reese takes a seat on a bench in the still lit area of the boardwalk and holds up his phone, blending in as well as he can with the laughing college students also on their phones. Eventually, Lance’s phone rings.

“Hey. Yeah. I know, I know. I just. Yeah. I’ll do it. I got another 10K for you though from tonight. Uh-huh. I know, man. Tomorrow. Give me another night to cash in. K. Bye.”

John doesn’t hear the click of the phone so much as watch the way Lance smacks the end button, and then raises his arm, ready to throw it in the ocean. His arm falls though, and John knows, while Lance has made a coward of himself tonight, he still plans on committing murder.

He watches until Lance returns to the hotel room, staying in the bar until it shuts down, and then he returns to his own room when the sound of deep snores make their way into his ear.

John pulls off his suit and then the tacky shirt, folding it nicely, more out of habit than care. He warms a microwave meal, stomach finally rebelling. He glances at his own phone but puts the thought of calling Finch out of his head. His employer is definitely in bed; it’s two in the morning. 

Sliding into the shower, John stretches his limbs. He turns the heat up as hot as it can go; hot water is small a luxury he allows himself. A need has been simmering in him since before he made it to the casino floor and he finally allows himself to acknowledge it, cock quickly rising away from his body.

Taking himself in hand, he presses against the shower wall, head down, letting the water rain over him. He begins to stroke, smooth and tight, no time for anything teasing. His eyes are open, watching his cock slip in and out of his grip. Unbidden, there’s a flash of another hand doing this for him. One that’s smaller and not adept at handling guns as his own, but still agile. Soft.

His own hand tightens and moves faster. John is breathing harder through his nose, chasing orgasm. He shakes his head, trying for a clear mind once more, but instead, Glasses creeps into his thoughts, and then the glasses don’t belong to the man his own age, but one a few years older and shorter, eyes keen with intellect and belonging to a mind as sharp as any of John’s weapons.

“ _Finch—_ ”

He comes, hot and desperate, and feeling more tense than before he began.

 _Fuck_.

~~~

Less than two days later, he’s headed back into the city. Lance is in a gambling addiction center and Sara seems suitably over him and also, hopefully, frightened out of her card sharking. As he sat on the train back, John made plans. 

One more day in Atlantic City has forced John to realize his jerk-off session isn’t a one-off thing. He could make it a one-off thing, sure. A part of him is tempted; years of suppression and a preference for things not changing driving that inclination.

But John isn’t military anymore, isn’t really _anyone_ anymore. Just a man in a suit, saving people based on numbers spit out by a machine, half who will never even know he was there.

The only thing that stumps him is Finch’s own inclinations. When he first met the man, he’d been turned off by his effeminacy, his clearly well-monied sartorial choices, his air of arrogance and superiority. Yet, he’d been intrigued by his lack of ambivalence, by a desire to find and help the numbers the government deemed insignificant, that Finch had unintentionally given a lifeline to.

When he first met Finch, he assumed the man was gay. Then he learned about Grace and deemed him a man of an era long gone: one open to courting, to life-long romances.

Now he finds himself hoping Finch is occupying the middle ground, as he finds himself. Though, critically, he finds it’s less about an inclination towards men than a dowsing rod pointing him at one man in particular. 

It’s mid-afternoon when he enters New York once more, taking a deep breath of city air – free of sea salt, heavy with the usual stinks of a big city, a hint of snow to come. Still, it’s home. He’s tired, but John has never let that keep him from completing a mission. He stops at the bakery, offering a small smile to owner who loads him down with one coffee, one tea, and four rugelach, exclaiming he looks thinner than usual.

He walks up the Library steps and is greeted with what for Finch is a shocked expression as he opens the door with his key. John feels himself instantly loosen in the other man’s company and he wonders if this is what it’s like to find home. John has never had a home, only places.

By the time he glances up, after setting down the drinks and treats, Finch has smoothed his expression once more. He’s now only vaguely curious, not surprised.

“I expected you would wish to retire upon returning. I would have let you know if we had a new number to pursue.”

John nods. “I know. I was…hungry.”

Finch looks down at the bag of pastries, then picks it up and opens it, pulling out a lovely pale triangle. He raises his eyebrow. “And, being hungry, you went out of your way to find my favorite pastry?”

He shrugs, sitting down after he removes his coat. “It wasn’t out of the way. Eat.”

Finch continue to look at him, head tilting for a moment, causing the impression of any number of the birds he affects name-wise. “Given your hunger, might I entice you into staying and ordering in Thai with me?”

“No enticing needed,” he responds, hiding his smile behind his own rugelach.

His partner places the order and then they begin the usual debrief. It’s likely unnecessary, given how close of an eye Finch keeps on him even outside city limits, but it’s customary, and an action that gives John closure.

By the time the food arrives, they’ve completed their discussion and with no new number, John is pressed for conversation starters. Presumably, not a great start when he’s considering asking Finch on a date. Work has often been a topic of conversation in his relationships, but it has never been the end-all. Still, John finds he doesn’t want to engage in the artifice of small talk and lets the silence fall.

As they eat, Finch instead begins a story of working with Nathan, this time something funny and trite. John listens and laughs appropriately, but when Finch mentions the time his friend tried to set him up on a double date, he sees his opening.

Somewhat clumsily, he cuts Finch off, mid-tale. “What is your ideal date?”

His partner blinks owlishly before answering. “I don’t suppose I’ve ever thought about it.” 

“Come on, Finch. Not once? Even in high school and you’ve got a crush on some guy or girl…?”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t so fanciful as to have crushes. There were fellow students I was perhaps attracted to, but I was not the kind of high school student you were.”

He leans in, placing his elbows on the table, Thai box shoved to the side. “What kind _was_ I?”

Finch likewise pushes his food aside. “Well, I know you played sports. You’re eloquent with women, I imagine that manifested as a certain boyish charm as a teen. You have a pervasive need to protect people. I know for a fact you were in several fights because you didn’t tolerate bullies, even then.”

“That’s right,” John says, a smirk catching his lips. “I wasn’t exactly the golden boy. Adopted, son of a vet who died, got into fights. I was the bad boy, Finch, a greaser. Even had a leather jacket.”

He can see Finch’s eyes sparkling with humor, even with the table in between. “A greaser? Don’t age yourself so, John.” He pauses. “So perhaps not the jock and nerd, but I don’t think we would have gotten along any better as the resident Bender and Allison.”

“The Breakfast Club? Color me surprised you’ve seen a movie since 1979,” he teases, tone light. 

“I’m not a total heathen when it comes to pop culture, Mr. Reese. Only that since 1999.”

John snorts. “I’ll admit to rescuing my share of Allison’s and Brian’s both. But I think, even amongst them, you would have stood out, Finch.”

The older man looks at him once more, eyes seemingly stripping him down, as he ponders behind a sip of freshly made tea. “Perhaps. Though more courtesy of the acne or the blatant disregard I would have felt for your help. Now, if you’ll allow me to continue my story?”

Reese allows the conversation to turn back to Nathan – a man he will never live up to, but whom with he at least doesn’t have to compete in the here and now. He feels warmed inside, Finch deigning to allow a genuine, if small, smile cross his features the rest of the evening.

It’s only when the sun goes down and the coffee starts working that John departs, makes his way to the apartment Finch purchased for him, and feels discontent. It’s not with Finch, though, but himself, a growing frustration that he wasn’t more clear. Finch didn’t even acknowledge the statement about crushes on either sex, glossing over that part of John’s comments like blades on ice.

Exhausted as he feels, when John arrives home, he showers and strips down to his boxers, only to lay in bed staring at the cameras he knows are there. It’s not until the first light of dawn crests the horizon that he sleeps.

When he does, he dreams of nothing.

~~~

Two numbers and one week later, John has decided to give up. Since that evening, he hasn’t been able to bring up dating or find a good excuse to mention sexuality again. Neither number nor scheme have brought about the need for him and Finch to appear as _partners_ – something that seems to be implied more frequently than he would have expected. He rationalizes his cowardice by telling himself Finch has never once mentioned men in any manner but professional or friendly. More importantly, he has never treated John with more than friendly professionalism.

He is content, though. John is used to not getting what he wants, and Finch is a good friend, a good coworker. He can be fine with that.

At least that’s what he thinks until the night they both return to the Library briefly after dinner at a small Italian restaurant. It doesn’t even occur to him that the place was exactly as he imagined Finch taking Grace until, inside the doorway, Finch pauses and says, “It’s customary to ask for a kiss goodnight on a date, I believe.”

The words take only a moment to register, so used to thinking fast in the heat of battle as John is, but when they do, he finds himself clenching his jaw so as not to allow it to drop in pure shock.

“In fact, since you’re here anyway, I thought I might let you know I’ve had a relatively pain-free day and would therefore be perfectly willing to engage in some coitus.”

John knows his eyes are bulging, now.

The other man laughs, a rare sound. “Don’t look so flustered, Mr. Reese. To any normal observer, you would have appeared as unchanged after Atlantic City. But, you see, I know you well and I recognize pining, being a rather avid piner myself.”

Finch steps into John’s space but only enough to where he can still look up at him, without having to tilt his head back. John finds his hands rising to his partner’s elbows, feeling the soft wool of his dinner jacket. “You knew?” he accuses.

“I knew. When it no longer seemed a fleeting thought for you, I decided to take action, seen as you decided to allow yourself to be a martyr. So, Mr. Reese; will you stay here tonight?”

In answer, John leans in and kisses him. Then he says, “Only if you call me John,” before leaning right back in.

~~~

In the soft light that comes through the windows in Finch’s – _Harold’s_ – makeshift bedroom, John is reminded of the last time he felt happy, soaking in someone’s warm skin next to him. The thought doesn’t hurt as much as it once did, and it’s quickly soothed by an ungodly snore emanating from the body beside him.

He leans over and explores skin and marks still new to him. Some are freckles, some scars. Both of them have age spots and Harold’s hair has turned grayer in the last year. There’s one mark, though, purple in nature, that isn’t natural to his partner and John finds his fingers dancing over it, some kind of satisfaction burrowed deep in his stomach.

Harold murmurs, “I’m glad you caught up.”

“Hmm?” John hums, questions.

“To this.”

He takes _this_ to mean the bed, the sex they had, the relationship they’ve apparently been in.

“Sleep,” John says, and for once, the other man listens, dropping off quickly.

John continues to feel that satisfaction, like a cat curled up on its owner’s lap. It’s a revelation, and yet nothing has changed. There will still be debates on methods, pastries to eat, numbers to rescue, and the looming knowledge that either or both of them could get caught in Samaritan’s web again. 

For now, though, the city and the Machine are quiet. There is nothing but this bed, a soft duvet, and Harold.


End file.
